The Temperature of Neon Rain

The city breathes in gasps of electricity, a restless beast that never sleeps. I stand on this balcony, letting the wind whip my hair into chaos—a deliberate mess to hide the fact that I’m trembling. They say the view is breathtaking, but all I see are thousands of tiny lives flickering like dying embers.

The silver fabric against my skin feels cold, a sharp contrast to the humid air clinging to my body. I pretend I don't care about the height or the noise. I tell myself I’m just looking for something real in this artificial glow. But then you appear at the doorway, your shadow cutting through my defenses like a blade.

You don't say anything at first. You just stand there, a quiet anchor in my storm of thoughts. When your hand brushes mine on the railing, I want to pull away—to snap at you for seeing through my mask—but the warmth is too inviting. It’s a terrifying vulnerability, this way you find the cracks in my armor and fill them with steady heat.

"The lights are louder tonight," you murmur. Your voice is a low vibration that settles deep in my chest. I shouldn't let you in. I should keep my walls high and my heart under lock and key. But as I lean into your space, the neon city blurs into a smudge of colors, and for one fleeting second, the only thing that matters is the way your breath feels against my neck. It’s not love—not yet. It’s just survival in a world made of glass and light.

Editor: Hedgehog